


They Are This

by Musyc



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Community: femmefest, Cousin Incest, Dominique Weasley - character, F/F, Relationship Issues, Rose Weasley - character, Weasleycest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2012-10-23
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:09:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musyc/pseuds/Musyc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wants, she <em>wants</em>, but she knows that she shouldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Are This

Rose knows that she shouldn't be there. Every time she takes the key from the sleepy-eyed clerk behind the reception counter, every time she steps into the lift and watches the floor numbers light up as she ascends. Every time she walks down the narrow hotel hallway, past plain doors with smudged brass numbers. Every time she unlocks the door and steps into a room that smells of carpet powder and stale smoke, of fake flowers and greasy room service meals, she knows she should turn around and walk away. 

She knows that she's looking for something she won't find in faded sheets and flattened pillows. Whatever she's missing, whatever it is that has her feeling empty and lost, as if she's floating in the center of a vast, black sphere, isn't something she can find here. She can't find the missing pieces of her heart, of her life, in this anonymous hotel room, any more than she's found it in the dozen others with their bland walls and dull furniture, all designed to be as inoffensive and unobtrusive as possible. She can't find it here, she can't find it like this. She _shouldn't_ find any sort of hope in this ... this.

In this.

She clutches the key in her fist, the ridges digging into her palm, and she tells herself she should leave. Before she takes the step that will let her see around the corner of the cramped loo, the final step that will show her the bed, she should leave. A dozen other hotels, a dozen other meetings, and nothing has changed. She knows that. She knows this is wrong. She knows that she won't find what she needs here.

She'll only find what she wants.

There's the slightest hint of movement in the room, the smallest sound of someone else breathing, and Rose opens her eyes. She shoves the room key into the back pocket of her loose jeans and steps forward, past the corner of the wall, into the room and into view. 

Her knees brush the end of the bed. The duvet is mint green and blush pink, always the same one no matter the hotel. Rose knows that it is brought to each meeting. She doesn't know if it's for security in unfamiliar surroundings, if it's for a sense of controlled cleanliness, or if it's just because the woman stretched across it looks so damned good framed in those soft pastels.

She suspects it's the last reason. Dominique has always had an innate sense of her own beauty, of the shades and hues that will set her apart with elegance, well-crafted perfection. Dominique knows how she looks to others, and from the gleam in her eyes as she strokes her hand down her bare side, traveling along the slope of her ribs and over the arch of her hip, she knows how she looks to Rose.

Dominique stretches out one leg, toes pointed, and prods Rose's thigh. "Rosey posey," she says. Her voice wraps around Rose like a velvet cloak, warm and soft and dark. She has a touch of her mother's accent that thickens when she's speaking French. Rose always closes her eyes to listen when Dominique reads to her from some Parisian magazine, those long, slender fingers stroking through her hair as she rests her head on Dominique's thigh. 

Dominique arches her spine and rolls to her back, her heavy breasts settling with a quiver. She cups them, pushes them together, and licks her lips in a silent invitation.

Rose takes a step back, moves away from the bed and goes to the window. She shoves the curtain open. The fabric is harsh against her fingers, rough with age and dust. Wiping her hand on her jeans, she stares out the window at the city lights. A fog has moved in since she walked into the hotel, and everything has a faint tinge of sickly grey and yellow. "I should go home," she says, leaning her head against the cool glass. She doesn't know if Dominique can hear her. She doesn't even know if she's speaking to Dominique, or if she's trying yet again to convince herself, hoping that saying the words aloud will do more to sink them into her mind. "I should go."

"You could," Dominique says. The bed creaks as she rises. She stands behind Rose, who shivers when Dominique's fingers slide down her back to hook in the waistband of her jeans. "You could go home, Rosey, but is that what you want? Is that what you really want?"

"Dom, don't." There is no conviction in her voice. Rose closes her eyes, presses her cheek to the glass. Dominique has barely touched her and already her skin is burning. Her breath aches in her chest as she tries to breathe steady, forces herself not to spin around and sweep Dominique into her arms. She wants, she _wants_ , but she knows that she shouldn't.

Dominique pulls Rose's shirt free, smooths her hands over Rose's stomach. Rose holds her breath as Dominique circles her navel with the pad of one thumb. "If you don't want this," Dominique says, her breath hot against the back of Rose's ear, "if you don't want me, then go. Walk out. Leave. We can end this here, never speak of it again. We can forget everything."

She lets go. The bed creaks again. Rose puts her hands on the glass, turns her head from side to side in an effort to cool her cheeks. She envies Dominique for the casual speech, the easy acceptance of an end to this ... this.

This.

All of this. Rose envies Dominique, and she hates her a little too. How can it be so simple to her? 

Rose opens her eyes, lifts her head from the glass, and realizes she can see Dominique's reflection in the window. She also realizes that perhaps it is not so simple as she's imagined, as she's fearing. Dominique is watching her, face tight and eyes intent. With her bottom lip caught in her teeth, she is staring at Rose and her expression is a barely restrained hunger.

Rose feels her heart pounding in her throat and the bends of her elbows, feels her blood rushing against her ears and pooling low in her abdomen. Her hands tremble and she locks them on the windowsill to keep the shake from being obvious. Dominique is sprawled on the bed, strawberry-blond hair loose around her shoulders, thighs pressed together and ankles crossed, long fingers stroking the duvet. She is the picture of seduction just as she is, but it's the heat and _want_ in her eyes that has Rose wet and quivering.

She turns, and in the second the movement takes, Dominique's face shifts. When Rose looks again, Dominique is watching her with disinterest, face blank and eyes calm. Rose rubs her cheeks and forehead to hide her smile. Dominique can act as though this is easy, as though this is something they can toss aside, but Rose knows now.

She steps forward. She grips Dominique's ankles and hauls them wide, kneels on the bed between them. Dominique gasps, staring at her with wide eyes, her mouth open in a startled 'o'. Rose pins Dominique's legs to the bed, clutches her knees in a grip that will leave bruises in the morning, and bends to kiss the flat plane of her stomach. She circles her tongue around Dominique's navel, flicking into the shallow dip, before trailing low to flutter along the edges of tight curls trimmed into a slender triangle.

"Rose," Dominique says, her voice slow and drawling. There's a tinge of confusion in that one word, a slight quaver. Rose kisses her thigh and smiles against her skin as the muscles tense. Dominique is always the one in control, always the one who makes the decisions. Dominique was the one who instigated the first kiss, the first touch, the first hurried and whispered fingering in the fields well away from the Burrow. Dominique acts; Rose reacts. That is always how it's been.

Not now. No longer. Now Rose knows. 

Now, Rose kneels between Dominique's legs and nips at the soft curves of her calves. Rose nuzzles the fold behind Dominique's knee, licks up the taut line of muscle in her thigh, mouths across her stomach, kisses down through the curls of her mound. Rose listens to Dominique gasp and whisper and finally plead. And then she knows. She knows that what she was missing, what she was seeking is here.

What she needed is this.

Dominique's disguised need, her hidden hunger. The gleaming heat in her eyes and the quivering uncertainty in her voice. Rose wants to turn Dominique's world upside down, to force her to acknowledge how much this means. To make her acknowledge that she wants as much as Rose wants, that she needs as much as Rose needs. To make her admit that this isn't something they do. It's something they are.

They are this.


End file.
